Blink
by JennieMac
Summary: C'est finis. To be continued in The Real World, for those who wish to follow.
1. Blink

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, but they fascinate me and so I am borrowing them for my own purposes. Mu-ah-ah-ah-ahhhhh. No copyright infringement is intended.

BLINK

She's been watching the door since she came in—half an hour early—this Friday morning. She doesn't want the cameras to see, but they do.

They see the way she glances up every time the door opens, and bites her lip and ducks her head when she sees it's not him. The cameras capture her chewing on her pen, something she hasn't done since she was twelve or so, and tapping her fingers and running through game after endless game of Solitaire, eyes filled with the green background, the zigzag pattern on the backs of the cards. They catch her draining her third cup of coffee and still yawning.

No sleep last night.

She's blinking more than she usually does. Her eyes flick to the doorway and back to the screen, flick to Michael when he strides into the office and straight over to her desk.

"Pamalamadingdong!" He is shouting, slamming his fist on the desk in a way that usually makes her jump. "Messages, faxes, anything?" He stares at her. "Bueller? Bueller?" he says, grinning, waiting for a return grin.

She blinks at him and shakes her head. Nothing.

His smile fades. He eyes the camera. "Wassa matta, Pamela? Lose too much money last night?" The grin is creeping back onto his face. She stares. "Too many tequila, senorita?" he says, pulling out the big guns, putting on a bad south-of-the-border accent.

Nothing: just the deadpan glare, the pressed-together lips.

He taps her desk with his fingertips and walks off, with another glance and a tiny shrug at the camera. She flicks the cards one by one, playing for money, losing on purpose.

She's scribbling something on a post-it when he finally walks in. He's carrying his briefcase like it's empty this morning, like it's an afterthought. It hits his legs as he walks, toward her, looking only at her. He fumbles as he reaches for a jellybean, unusually clumsy. They look only at each other, their mouths open, and the cameras see.

He's late.

She's biting at her lower lip.

He raises his eyebrows a few millimeters.

"Hey," she says, as he pops the jellybean into his mouth. Her voice is choppy and untried, as if this is the first word she has spoken all day.

He takes a deep breath, gives her the beginnings of a lopsided grin.

The phone rings.

It's the first call they've gotten all morning, and her hand is reaching for the phone before her brain can take over, her brow creasing in an Oh-God-why-now? kind of way, and he's lowering his eyes and sliding off to the side, moving toward his desk but letting his hands linger on her desktop, and she's picking up the handset. He drops his briefcase—it still seems empty—and drops down into his chair. Her eyes are on him, only on him.

"Uh," she says into the phone. "Um…"

Dwight leans forward, his beady eyes narrowing. "So Jim, what was the holdup this morning? Dog puke on the carpet? Car break down? Perhaps…" He wiggles his eyebrows and grins, showing his teeth. "A hot date last night? I know that even if I had had one…" he glances over toward Accounting… "I would still have been on time, and I think it sends a very unfavorable impression…"

Jim hunches down in his chair and does not reply. He does not even appear to be listening. His chin rests in his hand and he is not looking at her any more; his eyes are scouring the top of his desk, his phone, his blank computer screen, but his body is turned her way, his knees and his shoulders pointed toward the front desk in a way the camera cannot miss.

"Uh, D…Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam," she says. Squeaks, rather. Her eyes fall to the desktop and rove around while she talks, her body turning away from him.

There is a silence in which only the tapping of keys, the shuffling of feet and the dropping of change into the vending machine can be heard, during which he seems to hold his breath, motionless.

She laughs a little; it is a nervous laugh, short-lived and thin, unlike her normal pot-boiling-over giggles. "Sorry Jan. Yeah, I'm a little out of it this morning." Her voice is shaking.

He blinks and shakes his head a bit. He stands.

"Yeah, Michael is, ah…" she says.

He knocks on Michael's office door and enters before he is invited.

She frowns, staring after him. "Um…actually, he just went into a meeting."

Another silence. She stares at the office door, her mouth slightly open, the phone about to fall out from between her ear and her shoulder.

"Yeah, do you want his voice mail?...Okay, here you go." She punches a few buttons. She hangs up the phone and stares at the office door. She starts another game of Solitaire. She drums her fingers and clamps her teeth down on her pen.

The door does not open.

She forwards the phones to voice mail and stands up a little more quickly than she'd intended; when her chair rolls backward across the carpet and nearly knocks over the coat rack behind her, she seems genuinely surprised. She blinks a few times at the coat rack.

She stalks to the break room and pours herself another cup of coffee. She drops an ice cube into it so that she can drink it right away, and quickly. She takes her eyes away from Michael's door.

Michael's door opens.

Michael is smiling in a strained, I'm-not-happy way, and is followed by Jim, wearing a careful no-expression. He's not looking at her.

"Announcement, everybody!" Michael is shouting again. Toby rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair; Dwight's head pops up like a prairie dog. Others turn their heads with guarded interest, sensing that one of Michael's trademark highly inappropriate speeches is on the way. Pam leans against the break room doorway.

"Very shortly we will be losing one of our best salespeople," Michael continues. He claps Jim on the shoulder. Jim does not look up; his hands are stuffed in his pockets. "He is transferring to our Stamford branch, effective immediately after his upcoming vacation. He…" And Michael seems to be talking louder and louder at each moment, chuckling to himself. "He wanted me to keep this quiet. Didn't want to make a big deal out of it. But I think I speak for everyone when I say…"

People are exchanging glances, looking back and forth from Jim to Pam. She doesn't seem to be listening any more. She's watching his face; the way his eyes rove around, taking in everything but her, the way he's half-smiling now, going along with Michael, nodding his head slowly.

And then her hand lets go of the cup, and the coffee is splashing, hot, onto her white sneakers.

"Oh," she says, looking from the brown-stained carpet to her empty hand. Aware that everyone is watching, that the cameras are seeing. She stares, blank-faced, directly into one of the cameras for a few seconds. Then: "I'll get some paper towels."

She disappears into the break room, and does not come out until Michael is finished talking about "We'll miss him around here," and "Employee loyalty," about "Still within the same company" and "Probably run this place some day," only half-joking. She does not come out until everyone is back at their desks and no longer patting him on the back and softly wishing him well, until after Ryan has raised his eyebrows from across the room and Jim has shrugged his shoulders back, his hands still buried in his pockets. She stays in the break room until Dwight has finished shooting Jim dagger-eyes and is sulking, seething, to himself.

She sops up the mostly-dried coffee from the carpet and retreats back behind her desk.

………………………………….

The email comes at 10:30.

She has been very good. She has barely looked at him once in the past hour, though two of her pens are now unusable and she's been lucky to fit two coherent words together over the phone. There is practically nothing for the cameras to see, except that high up on her cheeks are two patches of flaming red, on her bottom lip are the imprints of her front teeth, and on her computer screen is an unfinished game of cards, at which she is still losing badly.

Then the email comes, and it all becomes real.

It's from him, and it says, _Give me a reason to stay? And if you can't, please forgive me for asking._

The patches of red spread down through her cheeks until her entire face is flushed, and she bolts up from her desk and jogs, chin trembling, to the bathroom. She leaves the email open on her computer screen.

……………………………………

He gets her reply at 11:00, after she's come back from the bathroom and missed three calls.

The reply is another question, which he reads and then stares at, blinking rapidly.

_Why are you leaving me now? And why didn't you tell me?_

……………………………………..

_You know why,_ he answers at 11:05. _There's no future for me here. Not without_

And he leaves her to fill in the rest.

……………………………………..

She doesn't answer that last one. During lunch hour she disappears, and he sits alone in the break room, eating nothing. Roy wanders through the office just after lunch, asking if anyone's seen Pam? _Really? We were supposed to have lunch together. Son of a…_

Jim sits alone, chin in hand, and does not appear to notice that Roy is there.

Fifteen minutes after lunch is over, Pam opens the main door and shuffles into the office. Her eyes are reddened and her nose is running. Her sleeve catches on the doorknob and she swears softly as she untangles herself. Michael sees her through his office window, comes to his door and opens his mouth. She freezes him with a tight-lipped glare. Michael closes his mouth and backs into his office. He closes his door and pulls the blinds.

Every eye is on her that afternoon. She says nothing and does not look at him. She gives a hearty sniff now and then, and that is all.

And at 3:31, she gets the final email.

_Just say the word,_ it says. _One word. That's all I need._

………………………………………..

Friday evening, 5:30, and they are the last ones in the office, again. They've watched everyone else trickle out the door, not saying much, some congratulating Jim again, others simply looking from one to the other and shaking their heads. Angela says nothing to either of them, only graces each of them in turn with a disapproving smirk and slams the door behind her, leaving only the two of them.

Well, the two of them and Michael, but he has not shown his face since his Announcement.

She plays Solitaire, losing spectacularly.

He stands to leave.

She drops her pen to the floor, the third pen today with chew-marks all down the sides.

He picks up his briefcase and sighs, nearly inaudibly, but the camera picks it up.

She presses the pen with the toe of her coffee-stained sneaker.

He is almost at the door.

"Don't go," she says, and even the camera can barely hear it.

………………………………………….

He freezes with his hand outstretched for the doorknob, and the cameras jiggle and waver, jockeying for final position. They capture his back, standing stone-still before the doorway, and his hand, which slackens on the briefcase handle, then tightens into a fist.

She has not moved, but her hands are twisting together in her lap and her eyes are closed.

He turns.

…………………………………………..

His face is gentle for her, his eyes soft and aching with hope.

"But it's 5:30," he says.

She blinks and frowns. There is a beat of silence and her eyes slide downward in confusion. "Huh?"

"Don't I usually leave at 5:30? I mean, especially on a Friday…" He trails off, and the teasing half-grin eases off his face as he catches her look. A wide-eyed plea that he will be serious, this once.

Silence again.

"How can you leave now?" she says. Her hands are trembling.

"I…" He drops his briefcase and grips the edge of her desk. "I have to."

Her chin trembles. This time, she seems angry, and her voice shakes with it. "Were you even going to tell me?"

"I…tried."

"And how can you say you have no future here?"

"Future," he echoes. His voice is hollow and his face is so tired, so shadowed. He has not slept, either. He gazes at her and she stares back. "When I think of my future,"

……………………………………………..

"I see you. You're all that I see. You're sitting on an old, beaten-up sofa, you're propped up with pillows that don't match and you're holding a baby, cradling the baby's head in your hand. And you're smiling at me…so sweetly."

……………………………………………

Her face crumples.

…………………………………..

"And I don't want to be in a place where I can't see that any more. Where I can't have that in my future. I don't want to be here after you're married to someone else. And maybe that's selfish. I know it is. But that's the way it's gonna be. Because…"

…………………………………..

He gazes down at her face, like he's done so many times before, when she didn't know what he was thinking.

"Because I can only take so much, Pam."

"Shut up." And she's standing. The words are so clipped, so angry, that the cameras joggle and waver again, in what seems to be confusion. They just barely catch her stalking around the desk and right up to him. "What right do you have?"

"I…"

"Shut _up_." And she closes her eyes at him; when she opens them again, they are shining and wet. "That was a hell of an ultimatum to give me, last night. No more friendship, no halfway, just all or nothing. The hell with what I feel. The hell with what I want." No one has ever seen Pam like this. Not even Pam.

"But I don't want…"

"I don't want to hear any more about what _you_ want."

"Just _listen_." He takes hold of her shoulders, gently, to steady her and make her look at him. She tries to shake him off but he holds on. "You're right. I don't want halfway. Not with you." That lone tear escapes from his eye again, crawls down his cheek. He shakes his head. "Not with you."

"Just…" She sputters, and half laughs. "Just shut up."

She takes his face in her hands and pulls him down and kisses him.

……………………………

This silence is longer.

His face, when they finally break apart, when he is stroking her curly hair with one hand and the other is at the small of her back…his face is a study in puzzlement and awe.

Her face, though, is streaked with tears. She shakes with trying to hold them in. "What am I going to do?"

He pulls away. "Hey," he says, brushing at her cheeks with his thumbs. "Hey."

She buries her face in his shirt and moans something unintelligible into his chest.

"Huh?"

She pulls away. "I said two words."

"Oh."

"Not just one."

"I know."

"I feel like such a terrible person…"

"No."

"What am I going to do…" she repeats.

He shrugs, his face reflecting her pain but carrying, now, a few scraps of unbelieving hope: you can see it in the eyes, wide and glistening, and in the mouth, the corners tugging upward. "I have no idea," he whispers.

She half-laughs again. "Oh, great."

"But I do care about how you feel, and what you want." His hands are on her shoulders again, steadying her gaze.

"Oh. Great."

He bites his lip. "So…how _do_ you feel?"

She looks at him, just looks at him: her eyes are soft as she closes them, slowly, and opens them again, and her mouth curls into a smile just for him. She lays her hand on the side of his face: gently, gently.

His smile: it is joy and love and yearning and hope.

"But," she says, and his smile falls, and so does hers. "But," she continues, "I just need…I mean, I can't…I need…some…"

"Time?"

"Yeah. I mean, I just…wow."

"Yeah," he says. He steps back and runs his hands through his hair, shaking himself, trying to snap himself out of it. "So I should…go?"

"Well…" She steps toward him and catches him by the elbow as he tries to back away. "No, I don't…it's just…Oh God, I don't know what I want yet. Besides you. And everything you said last night…I mean, I just…"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. Please don't go."

"I won't."

She closes her eyes again. "Please, please don't."

"I won't. Not ever."

They half-laugh through the tears; they join hands and they smile at each other in a cautious way and they even kiss again, albeit more briefly than before.

"What _are _you going to do?"

She sighs and her face crumples again. "I don't know. But I have to do it soon. The wedding…"

He releases her and steps back. "Yeah. The wedding." There's a slight question in his voice.

She opens her mouth to reply.

……………………………..

Roy interrupts her from the doorway.

The cameras swivel and shake, just barely managing to catch his angry red face in the dim light of the hallway.

"I'm glad someone remembers there's supposed to be a wedding."

………………………………

A/N: Sorry about the ending…I will continue if you want me to. Reviews?


	2. Slam

A/N: So, chapter 2…I'm now thinking this will be a 3-parter. I'm playing around with format and tense a bit here, let me know if it works, doesn't work, whatever. Again, don't own the characters, just playing around with them, and having quite a bit of fun in the process. No copyright infringement is intended.

…………………………..

SLAM

Pam stiffens immediately, and Jim springs backward with his hands up, as though he is being arrested.

"Roy…" she begins.

But he doesn't even look at her. He goes straight for Jim, who continues backing away, bumping into his chair.

"Roy, wait…"

His face is completely red. His hands are closed in fists, his breath is coming in short, steam-engine huffs. He closes the distance between himself and Jim in a few seconds, his fist flying wildly as soon as he is in range. Only the fact that Jim is stumbling over his chair saves him from a broken nose; the fist grazes his cheekbone and he keeps his feet, but only barely.

"No…" Pam probably meant to scream it, but it comes out in a strained whisper.

Roy is breathing as if he's run a mile. His eyes are narrowed at the other man in the room, but Jim is standing firm, a red welt just blooming on his cheek, eyes locked with Roy. When Roy speaks, it is low and calm and deadly. "Stay out of it. This is between me and Halpert." She is behind him now, and Roy reaches back to push her out of the way.

She won't go. "No," she says. Her voice is stronger. She grabs Roy's wrist in both hands and holds on so tightly her arms shake. "Roy, this is between you and me. Jim has nothing to do with it..."

Roy blinks at Jim, his face twisting with mockery. "Nothing?" Then a small smile creeps onto his face, and he looks from one of them to the other, beginning to sweat. "Aw, I am such an idiot."

Everyone has forgotten the cameras; they are steadying, catching the beads of sweat (is it only sweat?) on Roy's face, the fact that Jim is still standing his ground, fists balled at his sides. Catching the fact that Pam is staring only at Jim as she clutches Roy's wrist in a death grip, her eyes wide and panicked.

Roy just stands between them, looking from one to the other. "How could I not have seen this coming?"

Pam steps forward, not loosening her grip on him. "Look, nothing has been going on here…"

"Oh yeah right!" Roy whirls around to face her, and as he does his hand flies out of hers wildly, just missing her face; she flinches backward.

Jim makes a movement toward her, opens his mouth to speak, then stops himself.

"…Until today," she finishes, backing up.

Roy steps forward so he's right in her face; she bumps into her desk and she has to lean back, away from his angry words, his clenched teeth. "Am I supposed to believe that? What the hell, Pam?" And he slams his fist down onto the desktop next to her.

She closes her eyes and flinches back again, her arms crossing in front of her, her shoulders hunching. On her face there is pain, and something uncomfortably close to fear.

And Jim has had enough.

You can see him decide: he closes his eyes and opens them again, very deliberately; his shoulders relax.

He steps forward. "Take it easy," he says, his voice low and calm and deadly.

Slowly, slowly Roy turns to face him. "Take it easy?"

Pam is glaring at him from behind Roy's back, shaking her head. Jim ignores her. "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's rich." He slams his fist on the desk again; the jelly beans fall to the floor and scatter across the carpet. Pam watches them rolling, all the colors on gray carpet. She's close to hyperventilating.

Jim holds out his hands, palms down. "Calm down," he says.

Roy moves quickly. His hand has not relaxed from the fist he used to bang on the desktop, and he uses it as he lunges at Jim and grabs him by the front of the shirt.

Behind them, Pam lets out a faint scream.

"Don't tell me to calm down." Roy pulls his fist back. "Don't you dare…"

"Stop it, Roy." Her voice is thin and scared.

"Shut up, Pam."

Jim grabs the fist that is holding his shirt. His fingernails dig into the knuckles. "Don't tell her to shut up." There is something hard in his eyes, in his voice. He doesn't seem to be blinking.

Roy's eyes pop crazily, and he half-laughs. "You telling me what to do?"

"I'm telling you not to talk to her like that."

"She's my girlfriend, I'll say whatever the fuck I want."

"Roystopit." Her voice is no longer thin and scared; in fact, she is close to screaming, her teeth clenched. She is standing up straight. She is crushing the jelly beans with her coffee-stained sneaker.

Roy relaxes his grip and faces her again.

"I told you that he has absolutely nothing to do with any problems you and I might have. And I meant it."

"Pam, come on…"

"If you care about me at all or have any respect for me whatsoever, you will put him down right now and come outside with me."

The scene would be comical if it were not so awful. Both men are frozen, Roy still clutching Jim's shirt, but their heads are swiveled in the same direction and they are both staring open-mouthed at Pam; Jim is slightly fearful, Roy only confused.

Confused, then angry again. "Jesus Christ, Pammy," he whines, his voice rising again. He releases Jim's shirt and shoves him backward. "You're supposed to be my fucking wife, for God's sake…"

"No. I'm. Not." She is staring at him as she's never stared at Michael or Dwight, those who annoy her but don't really touch her. She is ferocious. "Not yet." She whispers this last, and she looks into his eyes with a blazing anger so complete that you wouldn't need to see her clenched fists or see her breathing so hard her nostrils flare to know what she's feeling.

And just like that, all the fight goes out of Roy. He sags visibly; he takes half a step toward her, then away again. "What…"

"You heard me." She nods toward the door. "Get out. If you don't want to talk about this, if you just want to fight, then fine. You can fight me. But not here, and not now."

Roy chuckles and covers his sweaty face with his hands. "You're mad at me? Oh, that is great."

"Well, you're being an asshole. So why shouldn't I be mad?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're cheating on me with this loser…" And he slams his fist down on the desk once more before continuing. "…Who you swore up and down was 'just your friend.'"

She doesn't flinch this time. "We weren't…"

"Bullshit!"

"Roy, just get out!" She's close to tears again, and she's stamping her foot like a child, but her gaze on Roy is steady and she doesn't let up.

"Fine, but you're coming with me and we're going to find out just what's been…"

"I don't think so." Jim steps forward, his jaw locked. Looking like he might be ready to fight again.

Pam's eyes flash at him, and she shakes her head again. "No. I'm going."

He stares at her. "Pam…"

"I'm going. Okay?" Her face is hard, and you would have to look very carefully to see the strain. It shows, around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, how hard she is trying to hold it together. These corners of her face tremble, and the camera sees it.

And then she turns and stalks out of the office, limbs straight and stiff. The door slams behind her.

Without Pam, they are just two guys hanging around awkwardly after a fight. Roy takes a deep breath and steps away first, following Pam out the door. In the doorway, he turns and stretches one arm out to point back at Jim, like the ghost of Hamlet's father.

"You're dead, Halpert."

The door slams. And then, silence.

This would be a perfect moment for a close-up of Jim's face, for a reaction shot, was the cameraman not still frozen in fear.

A beat or two of silence passes. Then Jim is in motion again, weaving slightly as he rocks forward and props himself up with his hands on his desk. He's leaning forward and his head is bowed. He reaches up to touch his reddened cheekbone.

"She left with him," he says, speaking to no one in particular.

He stands and wanders into Michael's office, pushing open the door and heading straight for the window. The camera follows, panning sideways and catching Michael, flattened against the far wall and staring, frightened, at Jim. Michael glances at the camera and mouths, _What's going on?_ Jim ignores him, stands at the window and watches the parking lot in the gathering dusk, watches as Roy clutches Pam's shoulders and she leans into his chest, sobbing into her fists. Roy lowers his face to hers and says something, and she nods. He reaches up to stroke her hair, tucking back that one loose strand that's always falling in her face.

Jim touches the glass with his fingertips; his mouth opens, then closes again.

"What's going on, Slim Jim?" Michael says. His voice is high, thin and nervous.

Roy slips his hand around Pam's shoulder and guides her to the passenger door of the truck. He unlocks and opens it for her. She climbs in and turns back to face him, saying something to him, shaking her head. Roy nods back, then leans in and kisses her softly before shutting the door on her and trotting around to the driver's side.

Jim leans his forehead against the glass, presses his palm into the glass. "He's right," he whispers, the tears starting to come. "I am dead."

"What's that, good buddy?" Michael inches toward the door with the air of trying to humor a crazy person.

The truck's engine starts with a roar. Pam glances up at Michael's window, just once, only to see Jim with his head pressed to the glass and a fist beside it, his eyes closed. She turns away quickly, lips pressed together, and stares straight ahead.

The truck pulls out into traffic.

Jim spins, eyes still squeezed shut, and slams his fist down on Michael's desk, sending a Matchbox Ferrari and a mini Union Jack clattering to the floor.

…………………………….

He doesn't remember how he got to his car. He knows that he told Michael to go screw himself, or something along those lines, that he pushed his way out the door without picking up his briefcase, that he fumbled around in his pocket for his keys for what seemed like an hour. He knows he is driving now, driving aimlessly, driving anywhere and nowhere, but the events are jumbling in his mind, so that it seems he slammed his fist into the glass and not the desk, and he cannot remember if he's had a drink already or if he badly needs one.

She left with Roy.

He's outside his house, though he was sure he didn't remember how to get there. He pulls up sloppily in front of the curb, not having the energy for the driveway, and rests his head against the steering wheel, the engine still running.

She looked straight into his eyes, and then left the building with Roy. She looked into his eyes and told him, _No._

He thinks he might cry again. He thinks he might scream. He throws open the door and is halfway across the lawn before he remembers the engine is still running. He goes back and yanks his keys out of the ignition, slams the car door so that it echoes down the street like a gunshot.

The driveway is empty; Mark is away for the weekend. Good. He remembers Mark telling him he was going away, telling him as they stood in the kitchen that morning, munching cereal and staring out the window, a million years ago this morning.

Jim hadn't told Mark about Casino Night. He hadn't had the heart. When you finish kissing a woman and she stares at you, then covers her mouth with her hand and mumbles that she has to go, and pushes past you as you reach for her again and practically runs out the door and is gone, gone by the time you get downstairs…well, that's not something you brag about to your buddies. When she does _the same thing_ a second night in a row…well, that's when you're lucky if your buddies aren't home.

Especially if she's the love of your life.

He fumbles with the doorknob and trips over the doorway. _Great, Jim._ He slams the door behind him, just a little too hard, and falls onto the couch, his hands over his eyes. He sniffs loudly.

What do you do, after the woman you love walks off with someone else? After you've poured your heart into her lap and she's just stood up and brushed it off onto the floor?

What he ends up doing is sitting on the couch for another hour with his hands over his eyes.

At the end of the hour, his hands drops to his lap, and his bloodshot eyes blink slowly around the dark room. He glances toward the kitchen, considers getting a beer, then dismisses the idea out of hand. He stands.

……………………………...

When you pass out on your bed fully clothed, it's never for a good reason.

Jim wakes up in the early pre-dawn of Saturday, face down on his drool-soaked pillow, to find that he has not undressed or pulled back the navy blue bedspread. He has not, in fact, even taken off his shoes. He has a raging headache and a wool-filled head and all the confusion of a hangover, and he's done nothing to earn it.

And then he remembers.

He stumbles downstairs in bare feet and boxer shorts, having belatedly undressed, and stares at the answering machine on the coffee table. No messages. He's not sure he would have heard it ring last night during his clothed, comatose sleep, and he's even less sure if she would have left a message if she had called. He feels stupid for thinking she'd call.

He thinks maybe he'll have a beer or two. Or ten. Maybe earn this hangover fair and square.

Because the pathetic reason he slept on top of his bedspread last night is because he wanted to be touching something that she'd touched, something that she'd sat on with her leg tucked under her while giggling about his yearbook photo. He's replayed that night, the night of the party, so many times in his mind, because it's all he has, really. All he has of her is a spot on his bedspread that he always finds himself touching, and a chair in the corner of his bedroom that he never though about, not until she decided to sit in it and mime typing and smile that warm smile that he'd die for, a thousand times over. He always finds himself glancing over at that chair when he's sitting at his desk, and replaying her words, her movements, in his mind. She should be…right about…there. Yes, that seems right. God, he is pathetic.

……………………………

Five hours and ten beers and two movies on Spike channel later, his mom calls.

"Hi, honey," his mom sings into his mouth. He's picked up the phone so quickly—dived for it, really—and with so little drunken coordination that he's holding the handset upside-down. Not a good sign.

He rights the handset and, blinking rapidly, speaks. "Hey, momma," he says, inadvertently using _Momma_ from back in preschool instead of the more grown-up _Mom._ He flinches, then waits for It.

"Jimmy, do you have a cold or something?"

And there It is. He closes his eyes and leans back into the couch cushions, muting the TV. "Naw, Mom. Just tired."

A pause. "You sound funny. Is something wrong?"

"No," he says, a little too quickly. He sits up straighter, trying to make it sound convincing. "No, I just…just tired. I just got up."

She clicks her tongue. "Oh, Jimmy. It's after ten o'clock."

He sighs. "Yeah, well. I had a kind of long night last night, so…" He runs his hand absently over his bruised cheek.

"Well, I just called to remind you that your father's birthday is next Sunday. We're just having a small get-together at the house, and he'd love it if you could come."

He sighs. "Sure, Mom." He's sure he's slurring his words, but most of him doesn't care.

"And you can bring Mark and his girlfriend along if you like, you father likes them. He hasn't been feeling well lately, so…"

Jim loses her. He doesn't mean to stop listening, but suddenly there's a woman on the TV who looks just like Pam: same hair, same big eyes, same smile…and he's lost. And after a minute or so he jolts back to reality and his mom's gone silent and he's half-dropped the phone, and he realizes the woman looks nothing like Pam at all, that he has been grasping at straws, again.

"What? Sorry, Mom."

A pause. "Jimmy, what's wrong, honey?"

_I want her,_ he thinks. _I want her and she's run out on me twice, and I promised I wouldn't leave her but I don't think I can stand it if I stay and she's with someone else, married or not. That's what's wrong._

"Nothing, mom," he says.

"Are you having girl trouble again?"

"Mom…" he says. _How did you know,_ he thinks. _How do you always know?_

"You know I never thought that Katy was right for you."

"Yeah, you've said. But it's not…"

"Good. Is it…is it Pam?"

God. God God God. He can only sit, frozen, and think: Where did she get that name? It's as if she's reached into his heart and pulled out the one name he didn't want to hear. The one name he's been dying to hear. Just how did she come up with _Pam?_ How? He's mentioned her a few times, true, but just in passing, right?

"Is she still getting married? Or what?"

"I've gotta go, Mom."

"Honey, I think you should talk about this…"

"I'll see you next weekend. Tell Dad I said hi." He hung up quickly, hung up before she could say the name again.

He stood and staggered into the kitchen, pulled open the fridge. Closed it. Nothing in there looked good any more. He wheeled back through the living room, flicking off the TV with a sharp jab and jogging up the stairs and down the hall to his room. To the bed where she had been. He curled on top of the bedspread and ran his hand over and over the place where she had been. He closed his eyes.

…………………………

Five more hours later, he opened his eyes again.

His head pounded and his vision swam, and he jogged, groaning, back down the hallway to the bathroom, where the inevitable happened. At least, it was inevitable if you drank ten beers in one morning on an empty stomach and then listened to your mom, of all people, say the name that you couldn't stop thinking of, and then fell asleep, drunk, on the bed where she had once sat and smiled at you, and you did nothing but dream of her. It really was inevitable. One stomach couldn't hold all that.

After, he brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with Listerine and popped four Advil and a couple vitamins (too little, too late) and wandered back into his room and stared at his clock radio. 3:36, it said.

Perfect.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and a holey white t-shirt and slapped on some deodorant and considered shaving but then figured, what was the point? He padded downstairs in bare feet and glanced at the answering machine. One message. He no longer even hoped it would be her, and of course it was not her, only his friend Keith wanting to know what he was doing that night and whether he wanted to hang out. He considered calling back.

He wandered into the kitchen and munched on a few handfuls of dry cereal that tasted like cardboard, and he stared out into the backyard and reflected on the irony that was great weather at the worst of times. It was a perfect goddamn spring day.

And he was staring out at the green hills and the blue sky when the doorbell rang.

He dropped the cereal box. No one ever rang the doorbell. His friends just came in, and visitors usually knocked. He'd forgotten they had a doorbell.

He walked to the door, treading softly so as not to make a sound, although he didn't know why. His mouth was dry, his hands were numb. He had no expectations, none. But he opened the door anyway.

She stood there wringing her hands and looking absolutely beautiful, even with dark circles under her eyes and mussed-up hair, even in ratty drawstring pants and a sweatshirt. Even after no sleep, he found her beautiful.

Pam.


	3. Sigh

Not my characters, just like 'em a whole lot. No copyright infringement is intended.

………………………

_The course of true love never did run smooth._

………………………..

SIGH

"You look like hell."

She couldn't help it: it just came out. He was standing there in ragged jeans and a holey shirt and bare feet, unshaven and bleary-eyed with a bruise on his cheek, and she'd never seen Jim look that way before, and she just said it.

And immediately regretted it: his face was all blank surprise. Then he was frowning.

And then, thank God, the sides of his mouth were tugging upward. "Hello to you too," he said.

She stared at her sneakers. "Sorry."

A short laugh. "S'okay. I probably do look like hell. Rough night, you know?" A pause. He rubbed the back of his neck; his eyes wandered away from her. "D'you wanna…" He gestured behind him, into the darkened house.

"Can I? I mean, do you…" She took a deep breath. Why was this so hard? "Do you mind?"

He just stared at her, and her insides crawled, because his eyes were doing that thing again: that thing where he looked at her like he was looking past what she was saying, and he was hearing what she was _actually_ saying. Finally he gave her another grin. "No, I don't mind." He stepped back and she moved forward, and her arm brushed his side and she flinched back. She didn't mean to, but the warmth coming off him was contagious, just like it had been the other night, and if she touched him again she wouldn't have the strength to…to what?

So she drew back, and the look on his face was enough to make her stomach feel like it had teeth, and was biting her from the inside.

He closed the door behind her, turning away, probably in hopes that she wouldn't see his face, and she knew she had to say something, anything, to fix this.

So, as usual, she said the wrong thing. "Listen. I just…Jim, I didn't want to leave it like that. With us. You know? Cause…" She had never been good at this. She wasn't the one who came up with the witty comeback right on the spot; she was the one who thought of it hours later while lying in bed. She'd been practicing what she was going to say to him from the moment she realized where her aimless driving had taken her, but now: now, she was standing in front of him, and he looked so flat and defeated, and she was looking into his eyes and they were so sad it broke her heart. When he got that look on his face, she always found herself picturing what he must have looked like as a little boy, a tall gangly boy with those same sad eyes and that sensitive mouth…

_Focus._

"Because…" She couldn't go on. Just couldn't. Her breath ran out. Her hands came up in front of her and she was wringing them together, fiddling with her ring like she always did when she was nervous, and her mouth was hot and dry and she looked down at her feet because she couldn't, _couldn't_ look at him and say what she needed to say.

"Hey." His hand was on her shoulder and she froze because it was burning her. She forced herself to stay put, to look at him. "Forget that for a second," he said, but the gentle yearning on his face told her that he had done anything but forget it. Put it on hold, maybe, but not forget it.

He was steering her over to the couch. She sat down; her legs were shaking, and she couldn't remember when that had started. All of a sudden she felt like crying, and she sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She looked down at her hands: they were clenched together in front of her.

He was sitting next to her, not too close, but not far enough away either. "You look exhausted," he was saying. "D'you get any sleep?"

She shook her head, the tears threatening just below the surface. They would break through if she said a word.

"Me neither," he said.

They looked at each other then and smiled, and for a second it was like old times, just the two of them sharing a grin, commiserating through mutual suffering.

"You want something to drink? Eat? Anything?"

And just like that, the tears welled up again. How could he be so sweet? After all that had happened, how could he still be worrying about whether she wanted anything? "Some tea would be great," she croaked.

"Comin' right up." He padded into the kitchen in his bare feet (long and lean, like the rest of him), and she sat motionless listening to him fill the kettle with water, get a mug and a teabag, set the burner on high. Just Jim, puttering around the kitchen like it was an ordinary day.

The tears came. And she buried her face in her hands.

She heard him come back in, pause in the doorway and then quickly walk over to her. She felt his hands on her shoulders, rubbing her arms and trying to comfort, but she shrugged him away and leaned back into the couch cushions and he drew back.

"Pam…"

And she knew, without looking, that _that_ look would be on his face again. She couldn't look, so she spoke into her hands. "Jim, just…can we just forget what happened for a while? Because…" She sighed into her hands. It was coming out all wrong, but there was no stopping now. "Please. I just really need you to be there for me…as a friend, right now."

She heard him suck in his breath, and she could imagine the look that would be on his face right now: the hurt and disappointment. She wanted to tell him there was no need for that, but she knew it wouldn't come out right.

"I can do that," he said, his voice quiet and gentle and carefully free of expression.

And she couldn't stand it any more, so she moved into his arms, and she could feel him pull back for a second before his arms came around her, his hands in her hair and on her back, and he was so warm she couldn't stand it, but she didn't pull away. Just cried into the thin cotton of his shirt and into the warm skin underneath. He smelled like Boy, like sweat and muscle and the bottom of a long-unopened drawer, and it was so great and so warm and so _Jim_.

They stayed that way, her crying and he carefully not moving, until the kettle started whistling in the kitchen. He pulled away, then, and she wiped at her face with her sleeves, and he came back from the kitchen with a steaming cup and a box of tissues.

She could feel him watching her, but she didn't look at him. Couldn't. This was just too, too weird. After last night, and all that happened with Roy, to be sitting here in Jim's house being given tea and sympathy…too weird. _Don't think about Roy. Not here._ But how could she not? _What would he say if he knew where you were? What would he _do Suddenly she was shivering, thinking of last night, and Roy. How angry he'd been. This was just too, too much.

Jim's voice cut through her rambling thoughts before they could get really out of hand. "I really blindsided you the other night, huh?"

She looked at him, so surprised she forgot her resolution not to look. He was still wearing the sad-little-boy expression, but it had softened with concern. Balling up a tissue in her fist, she nodded. "A little." She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes, then looked down at her hands as she shredded the tissue with shaking fingers. "I mean…I knew how you felt, kind of, but I didn't _know_. And…I sure didn't expect you to say anything."

"Yeah." He was rubbing the back of his neck again; she could see his elbow seesawing back and forth, on the edge of her vision. "I'm sorry."

There was an awkward silence. She picked up her tea, cupping it with both hands and blowing across the surface, inhaling the warm fumes. She smelled mint and chamomile. Only Jim knew that she liked tea…

Then he said: "So."

"So," she answered.

He cleared his throat. "So what happened? Are you okay?"

She sighed and put down the mug, wondering how much he wanted to know. "Yeah. I guess. I mean, it wasn't pleasant, as you can probably imagine."

"Yeah." She noticed an edge of panic in his voice and caught him glancing toward the door.

Despite herself, she grinned. "Don't worry. He left around three AM." She sighed and picked up her mug again. "He went to stay with his brother at the shore."

"He left you alone?" Jim's voice was sharp.

She blew across the surface of her drink again. "Yeah, but believe me, it's better this way. We weren't exactly having the most productive discussion." She paused. "He was a little out of control. He…well, you saw."

Jim was silent. She took a sip of her tea. When she glanced up at him, he was staring at her, stony-faced.

"What?"

"Did you fight?"

"Yeah. I mean, obviously." _Oh God,_ she thought. _He can see it, he can see it on my face, he can always tell. He can see what happened._

Jim was silent for a few moments. Then: "Did he hurt you?" His voice was very low.

She blinked at him, mouth open. For a fleeting moment, she wondered, _What would he do if I said Yes?_

Then the ability to think came rushing back, and she shook her head. "No."

He kept looking at her.

"No. He wouldn't do that." Jim still wasn't saying anything. "Trust me. He wouldn't."

Jim sat back a little, still watching her but looking a bit more relaxed.

"Bad enough that he did it to you."

He grinned a little, fingering the bruise on his cheek. "Hope you gave him what-for on my behalf."

"I did, as a matter of fact."

She thought of Jim's face from the office window as she drove away, and a stab of queasiness rocked her; she laid down the mug and sat back into the cushions, mirroring Jim.

"So…you went home, argued, and he left. And that was it?" He was watching her so carefully; she could feel it without looking.

She nodded, but her conscience pricked her. _That wasn't entirely it, was it Pam?_ She stared ahead at the wall. _That's not really all that happened._ She shifted around on the couch, drawing her feet up and tucking them underneath her legs.

"I worried," he said. "About you, about what he would do." She turned her head and he was gazing at her again, and she grinned and looked away to avoid having to meet his eyes.

"I was more worried about you." She leaned her head back, closing her eyes. This couch was entirely too comfortable. "I had to get him out of there before he…"

"Lost control?" His voice was angry again.

"Yup." Her eyes were still closed. There was another long silence, and she felt herself drifting farther and farther back. Such a long day and night and day since she had slept. Longer than that, if you wanted to be technical. She counted back…

"Hey." Jim was poking her in the side, and even the tip of his finger was warm.

"Hmmm." She didn't open her eyes.

"Am I losing you?"

She opened her eyes then, her pulse pounding, completely awake. "Huh?"

"Are you going to sleep?"

"Oh." She shook herself. _Get a grip._ "Um."

"You look exhausted."

"I kind of am."

He was watching her again, his lips pressed together. This time she caught his eye and held it. She heard him sigh, a long sigh through his nose, and then he stood.

"C'mon." He tossed his head, indicating the stairs.

"Uh." She stiffened and sank further into the couch cushions. "What?" Panicking. "I should really go, actually, I don't even know why…"

He grinned at her. "I'm giving you my bed, Beasley. Like I said, you look exhausted." He raised his eyebrows at her. "Where did your mind go?"

"Oh, shut up," she mumbled. She stood, biting her lip. "I can't do that. I'll just go home…"

"No way. You're not driving when you're this tired. I'm surprised you made it over here in one piece."

_So am I,_ she thought. _Come to think of it, I don't even know how I got here. I wasn't planning on coming here._ She eyed the stairway, her eyelids pulling closed again_. I shouldn't have come here. And I shouldn't stay._ But she heard her mouth saying: "Are you sure you don't mind?"

He shrugged. "Nope."

She didn't move. "I shouldn't."

"What am I gonna do, make you sleep on the couch?" He was grinning at her in that old playful way, and it was difficult not to grin back. Too difficult, so she did. "And it's obvious you're gonna sleep, and I can tell you for a fact that's the lumpiest couch on the planet."

"I don't know," she said, beginning to smile a little. "You sure this isn't just an elaborate plot to get me into your bed?"

He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It's not that elaborate."

Giggling stupidly, she followed him upstairs. She was glad for the laughter and the light banter, glad that they were at least making a show of acting normally. As they reached the upstairs hallway, he said over his shoulder, "Don't worry. I promise I won't use any moves on you."

She placed a hand over her heart in mock relief. "Oh thank God. I thought I was going to have to use some of Dwight's martial arts to fend you off."

He stopped in his doorway, wheeling around to face her. "That's the second time you've mentioned Dwight in the vicinity of this room. I'm gonna have to insist that…"

"You're right." She held up her hands. "Never again."

"See that you don't," he said, turning back.

So here it was. The bedroom. Again. He flipped on the wall switch and she saw that the covers were rumpled: either he was a really messy bed-maker or he didn't crawl under his covers when he slept. He frowned down at the bedspread for a second, then held up a finger.

"Wait a second."

"Huh?"

"Stay right there." He ducked out of the room again and jogged down the hall. She heard him open and close a couple of doors, then come jogging back. He was carrying a fresh pillowcase.

"Oh, you don't have to…"

"Trust me. You want a clean pillowcase."

She raised her own eyebrows at him. "I don't want to know."

"You're right. You don't." He fitted the new pillowcase on and balled up the old one, tossing it into a corner. "It's a sordid tale."

"Glad to see you're such an impeccable housekeeper," she said, glancing after the old pillowcase.

He turned back, his mouth open for a retort, and froze.

At the same instant, they both realized where they were. In his bedroom, together, alone in the house. Not like last time, when there was a cameraman in there with them and about twenty other people downstairs besides. Now, they were alone, and she felt the silence of the empty house pressing in on her ears. The ringing filled her head.

"Um," she said, blinking stupidly up at him. Brilliant, as always.

"So." He was rubbing the back of his neck again. "Sleep as long as you want, obviously. I'll be around if…" He trailed off.

_If you need me._ It hung there in the air between them, exactly as awkward as if he'd really said it.

"Well," he finished. "Have a good…" He backed out of the doorway, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Jim," she called. Just his name, just once.

He pushed the door back open so quickly that it banged against the wall, and he grabbed the knob tight in his hand as it ricocheted back to him. "Yeah?" He sounded a little breathless.

"Just wanted to say thanks. You're being really great about all this." _Stupid. So, so stupid. Just shut up, Beasley._

He shrugged, staring at his hand on the doorknob. "Yeah well. Sleep well." And then he was gone. The door drifted in his wake, tapping on the doorjamb but not quite closing.

She decided she liked it that way.

………………………

It took a long time to get to sleep. Number one, because of the past 24 hours and all the implications thereof, none of which she wanted to think about, but all of which kept popping into her brain nevertheless. Number two, because today was the day she was supposed to have met with the florist to make some final decisions, and she hadn't; she hadn't even called, just hadn't shown up. Number three, because today was _also_ the day she was supposed to have gone with Roy to get his tux fitted and get the final alterations done on her gown, and she hadn't done either of those things.

Number four, because the covers and the sheets and even the clean pillowcase smelled like him: that Boy smell, that mixture of Old Spice and sweat and mint and red jelly beans that she always associated with Jim.

During the hour of that afternoon when she was lying there in the bed that smelled like Jim with her eyes closed and trying not to think, she heard him come back to the doorway at least once. She never opened her eyes or moved or gave any indication that she was awake, but she was somehow sure that he stood there watching her. For a very long time. She could feel it, but she didn't move, just lay there and listened to him listening to her breathe, and eventually he walked away.

……………………………..

She woke up soaking wet. It took a few seconds to place herself in space and time, and as she blinked herself awake she could have sworn that she'd just heard her alarm going off, that she had to get up and shower and get breakfast and wake Roy up and drive in to work and see…

But no, there it was. The smell, the Old Spice and sweat and mint and red jelly bean. She was in Jim's house, in Jim's room, on Jim's bed—_Tell me you didn't want to do this the night of the party, tell me this wasn't in your mind_—and she was drenched.

It was completely dark, and she stumbled up onto her feet and almost tripped over the covers fumbling for the light switch, and when she found it the world was a painful white blur because her contacts were completely dried out. The wetness was coming from her: she had been sweating in her sleep, and it had soaked all the way through her T-shirt.

_What did I dream of?_ Probably better that she didn't remember. She had an idea, though, and the shiver came involuntarily as she peeled the damp shirt off over her head and dropped it onto the pillow. More importantly, what was she going to wear now?

Her eyes drifted over to Jim's closet. _I couldn't…_but which would be worse, going downstairs in one of his shirts, or going down topless? She gave a hysterical little laugh as she opened the closet door. A blast of Jim-scent greeted her, and she steadied herself against the closet doorway and pressed her fingers against her closed eyelids. _What am I doing? What am I doing?_

She opened her eyes again. Better. At least she could see now, although her dirty, dry contact lenses were still suction-cupped to her eyes and giving the world a fuzzy white sheen.

The clock radio by the bed said 10:39.

Perfect. She had slept for several hours in his bed, and his roommate was probably home by now and wondering who this crazy girl was who had parked too far away from the curb outside and was now taking over Jim's bed. With Jim not in it.

She grabbed a shirt from a hanger. It was white. An ordinary work shirt, probably, one that wouldn't seem…_Oh, hell_. She pulled the shirt on over her head and found herself swimming in sleeves that were many inches too long. Once she had them rolled up, and the shirt buttoned all the way to the top, and her pants straightened out, she was ready.

She crept down the hall and down the stairs as quietly as she could, expecting to run into the roommate (what was his name?) or his girlfriend any second. But she ran into no one. The house was still as quiet as it had been when she arrived, save for the soft strains of TV-sound coming from the living room. She walked on tiptoe, as though trying not to wake someone, and peered in the living room doorway.

He was on the couch, an open pizza box in front of him and half the pizza gone. He was staring at the TV without seeming to see the _Colbert Report_ rerun; one of his legs was jiggling up and down and the remote was balanced on his knee. The remote kept almost-falling, but then he would catch it just before it did. He stared and stared at the screen. He didn't notice her.

She cleared her throat and he lost his grip on the remote and it fell to the floor.

And then he was staring at her.

She wasn't prepared: not for the warm flush that came over her when he looked at her, and not for his expression of utter disbelief and yearning and…something else.

"You're up," he said, and his voice was cracking like a teenager's.

"Yeah." She looked away, at the TV, into the kitchen, out into the dark back yard. "I borrowed one of your shirts."

"I know," he said. "I mean, that's cool." He shook his head and picked up the remote, muting the TV. "I got some pizza, if you want. It's kinda cold now, but…"

"No, that looks perfect," she said. She walked stiff-legged over to the couch, tugging at the rolled-up sleeves of the shirt, and sat down beside him; he shifted his legs a bit, but didn't move over. They were much too close, but she decided not to notice. "What is it, pepperoni?" She was going for normal. Normal was good.

"And sausage," he said.

"Perfect," she repeated, tugging out a slice of cold pizza and not looking at him. "Papa John's?" She lifted up the box lid.

"Of course."

"D'you get dipping sauce?"

"Garlic."

"Awesome." She dug into the pizza, surprised to find that it tasted wonderful. She hadn't eaten in…well, not since lunch Friday, probably. If you could count that as lunch.

He picked up a cold slice too, and they both ate and gazed at the silent TV and did not look at one another.

Well, she looked. A little. Only when he was turned the other way. He had showered and shaved, and was wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a nicer shirt. She wondered if he'd come into his room to get the clothes, while she was sleeping. She wondered if…

"You were hungry."

"Huh?" She glanced down and saw that she was currently demolishing her third slice of pepperoni and sausage. She, who normally went for the veggie toppings only, and drew the line at two pieces, because anything more was, well, too much. "Yeah, I was."

"So was I." His mouth pulled into a wry smile and he tossed his pizza crust into the box.

She looked at the crust, then frowned at him. "You don't eat your crusts?"

He blinked. "No." A pause. Then: "Why bother? All the good stuff's gone."

"Are you kidding?" She stared at him. Then: "Mind if I eat yours?"

Another pause. Then: "…Sure."

She grabbed the crust and wolfed it. Really, she'd never been this hungry.

The pizza was gone, and the lights were off in Jim's house, and they were illuminated only by the flickering light of the TV set, and his eyes were so sad. Sad and with a tiny scrap of hope, because he would never give up hope, she realized. He'd always love her, just a little, no matter how long...

She stared into his eyes and realized she didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, licking her lips and tasting pizza grease. She told herself she should really look away. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea. She opened her mouth to say something.

"My breath stinks now," she heard herself saying.

"Mine too," he said.

"We really shouldn't be…" She was only whispering it. She had no idea what she'd intended the end of that sentence to be. He looked so sad.

"What?" He leaned closer.

"Um," she said.

She saw his chin quivering. She heard him say, "Oh, God, Pam." She felt him come closer, felt the heat radiating off of him. And then…

The kiss was slow and cautious, not like last night or the night before. At first.

And then his hands were in her hair and she was clutching the back of his neck and the pizza box was on the floor and he was so close, so close that she could see the tears in his eyes as he whispered, "I love you. I love you."

"Jim," she whispered back. Just his name, just once.

And then, again: "Jim."

It was enough, and they were lying half-on, half-off the lumpy couch with her arms twined around his neck and his hands creeping up her back, and they were so warm. _I could just let this happen,_ she thought as his lips drifted down over her neck and brushed the knob of her collarbone. _I could just…not say no._

_Just like I didn't say no to Roy last night. Not in so many words._

"Wait," she said.

"What?" He sounded breathless; one hand rested on her bare waist and the other was twined up in her hair.

"Stop," she said. It was stupid, but she felt like crying, looking into his eyes again and seeing the fear and the hurt. "I can't…" And she couldn't go on.

"Pam, what?" He was sitting up now, and the look on his face was crushing her.

"I…can't do this right now," was all she managed. Then she was up and out, and she didn't close the door behind her and she was still wearing his work shirt but she didn't care, and she didn't have her shoes on but she didn't care, and she was stumbling across his lawn before she could change her mind.

"I'm sorry…I'm so sorry," she heard him saying behind her, and she knew he was coming to the door and that he'd probably follow her all the way to her car, and she couldn't deal with that right now, so she started running.

Because she was remembering what she had dreamt about: last night, and Roy, and how she hadn't been able to say no to him, not even after everything, not even with all that she felt and didn't feel and didn't know any more. She hadn't stopped him, hadn't said no. She'd gone along with him, like she'd been doing for ten years now.

And afterward, when she'd cried and told Roy it was all a mistake, just a big mistake, he'd gotten madder than she'd ever seen him and he'd pounded walls and slammed doors and thrown the phone across the apartment and cracked a window and gotten into his truck and driven to his brother's. And she'd sat there with a sheet wrapped around her and cried, and cried.

All because she wouldn't tell Roy what he wanted to hear. Couldn't. And now…now she couldn't tell Jim what he wanted to hear, either.

Pam reached her car and tried to unlock the driver's side door for a good five minutes, cursing and sobbing and stamping her foot, before she realized it was unlocked already. She fell into the seat and didn't close the door all the way and laid her forehead on the steering wheel and let out a long, ragged sigh and didn't drive away.

………………………

A/N: Told you guys you were gonna hate me. But I did some thinking and…anyone who's ever been through an affair/breakup like this one knows that it's NEVER simple, that it's ALWAYS messy and painful and back-and-forth. So, I kind of applied that here. Yeah, um, this one got away from me. You know how I said this was going to be a three-parter? Yeah, I lied. Just go with it. The torture will not continue forever.


	4. Scream

Silly, I don't own these characters!

……………………………

SCREAM

_Three strikes and you're out, Halpert._

He is twelve again, and playing Little League. It is still a few years before he'll discover basketball, and his gangly limbs are awkward liabilities when standing at the plate: he is all elbows and knees. He's always gotten nervous when stepping up to bat; unlike basketball, where you play in synch with the rest of your teammates, baseball relies more on individual performances, and that has always made him uneasy. He hates that bottom-of-the-ninth, bases-loaded, three-and-two, it's-all-up-to-me feeling. It always brings out the worst in him. Basketball is a higher-scoring game; more opportunity to come back from a foul or a missed shot. More ways to bring it all back after you've messed up.

Baseball: you have just three chances.

He is really hoping that Pam isn't counting strikes, because he just used his last one. She asked him to be there for her as a friend, and he failed her because he couldn't help himself. He stands at the door and watches her run off into the night and thinks, _This is the third time she's run away from me._

_This is it._

He leans his head against the doorway; he watches her struggle with the car door and finally get in and lay her head on the steering wheel and just bawl. He wonders how many more times he can stand having his heart ripped out of his chest after…kissing her.

Which is…so great. If he'd had any idea how great it was going to be: how soft her lips are, how her eyelashes tickle his cheek as her eyes flutter closed, how she touches him with just the tips of her fingers at first, her nails barely grazing his skin. How her skin tastes like salt and cinnamon. If he had known, he would not have waited so long.

Too long. She's gone now. Not quite gone, but going: any second, she's going to start the engine and drive back to her apartment and sleep for a while, and wake up and think it was all a bad dream. Maybe she'll quit Dunder-Mifflin, maybe he'll never see her again, maybe she'll finally marry Roy.

Maybe he'll take that transfer, even though he promised her he wouldn't.

Maybe he'll die.

That last one is sounding more and more attractive, the longer she cries. He can see her in the yellow glow of a streetlight, her head shaking against the steering wheel. Her silent sobs cut through him. He did this. Him. If only he hadn't kissed her again, if only he'd stopped to think.

But. But, she'd come downstairs dressed in his shirt, and God, how many times had he sat there and imagined her dressed just like that, smiling at him from the doorway with her hair all wild. Well, she hadn't been smiling tonight, and if he'd been paying more attention to reality and less attention to the dream-Pam turned real-Pam, he might not have missed that. She'd just been looking at him with something in her eyes that he'd never seen before, something that he thought might just be a scrap of the longing he felt, and he'd had this crazy thought that maybe now, it would be okay, maybe now he could kiss her and the rest of the world really would go away.

Yeah. That didn't work. And now, here he is, watching her run away again. Having chased her away. The thing is, he can still see her, and as long as his eyes can see her he can't go back into the house. As long as she doesn't drive away, he's stuck here in this doorway limbo.

_Maybe she's not going to drive away. _It sounds like his sister, in his head: the one who's always given him the best advice. The one he never listens to.

So, as usual, he argues with her: That's ridiculous.

_She's not starting the car, _his sister counters.

I'm grasping at straws. And I'm talking to myself.

_Maybe she wants you to go to her. Wants you to stop her._

No way. I've had my three strikes.

_You men and your sports analogies. This is not baseball, idiot. This is not a game at all. Now get your ass over there._

He starts walking across the grass before he realizes he's moving, and before he's really ready he's reached her car, and he's crouched down beside her door, his sneakers crunching on pavement, and the glass is fogging from her crying. The door is open just a crack and the dome light is on. He edges the door open wider and he kneels on the pavement next to the car and he reaches out and smoothes her hair, and even now he's registering how soft it is, even as he says her name.

She pulls a hitching sigh and her chin trembles, and then she says, without looking at him: "Jim, I'm sorry."

She's stolen his words, said it before he can. "Why are you sorry? I'm the one who…"

"This is not," she starts, but has to choke off another sob. Her knuckles are white where she's gripping the wheel. "This is not because of you."

"Then what?" he asks.

"It's…" And she looks at him then, and her tear-stained face tells him volumes. She has one of those faces you can read, and right now he's reading pain and fear.

Anger floods into his head and he makes a fist with the hand that is resting against the car's frame. _I knew it. I knew she was lying before, when she said he didn't hurt her._ "What did he do to you?" It comes out through clenched teeth.

She bites her lip, looks away. "He didn't, really." Her voice is raspy as if she's been screaming, and her chin still trembles. "I mean, it wasn't all him…we both kind of…"

Her face goes bright red and suddenly she is turning away, twisting around in the seat so she doesn't have to look at him, and he is thinking, _Oh, my God. Please, please don't let her be talking about what I think she's…_

"We screamed at each other for hours, after we got home. I don't even know what I said, but eventually we were…" She shakes her head. "And he kept asking me, _pleading_ with me, asking me what it was he did wrong."

Jim closes his eyes. _Please don't tell me, please don't say it, please don't make it real. Please. I love you, and I can't take it._

"And finally I just…and we…"

He bows his head and squints down at the pavement, at the cracks in the cement, and works his jaw from side to side. Grinding his teeth hard enough that his jaw hurts.

"And I knew it was wrong. I knew it was a mistake, but I just couldn't think of anything else, and I was so tired of screaming and fighting. And he kept asking me. Pleading with me. He wanted to…"

_Of course he did. Of course he'd want to._ Jim squeezes his eyes tighter shut, even as he reaches for her hand. _He's an idiot. Of course he'd think that's the way to win you back._ He opens his eyes and looks at her, and sees all the hurt and confusion and fatigue of days without end. _And now you're sitting here thinking you're the one who caused all this, while he's off drinking with his brother at the shore._

The fist that is balled up against the side of the car tightens so that the knuckles crack. With his other hand, though, he gives her small, warm hand a squeeze, and she heaves a shuddery sigh. "And then when we…when you and I started…I just, I mean I couldn't."

_I hate him for making you feel this way._ All he wants to do is find Roy and rip him to tatters, but instead, he squeezes Pam's hand again and touches her on the shoulder, the way a friend would. When that is not enough—and when has it ever, ever been enough?—he brushes her cheekbone with his knuckles, very gently, and makes her look at him.

"I'm sorry," she squeaks, and her green eyes are wide and sad and her face is red and puffy and her nose is running.

And she still looks beautiful.

He shakes his head, and his insides are molten lava, but he swallows it down and makes himself say, "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"But…" Her head drops, and she picks at the seam of her pants. "But I…God, how could I let him…talk me into…so _stupid…_"

"Hey. Stop." He makes her look at him again; he likes that she responds as soon as he touches her, that she kind of leans into his hand, probably without realizing she is. He could get used to that.

Then he asks her a question that makes the molten lava in his stomach boil up to hair level. He doesn't want to say the words, but it's like a bad accident: he can't stop them. "Do you love him?" he asks.

Her eyes widen and slide off to the side. "I…" She sniffs. "Yeah. I do."

And his insides hit rock bottom. His voice is a little hollow when he tells her, "You didn't do anything wrong, Pam."

She watches him, mouth open. "You don't…"

"And you were right before. It's none of my business. I have nothing to do with you two." He hates saying it. He wants, more than anything, to claim ownership, to step in between the two of them. But he's not That Guy.

And she's not That Girl. She's shaking her head at him, now. Speechless.

"Listen," he tells her, and she does. He's still got hold of her hand, and it feels damp and hot and fragile and he's not letting it go. "I'm not asking anything of you. The last thing I want, the very last, is to make you not happy." He takes a deep breath. The lava in his gut is churning and bubbling, merciless. He shifts on his knees a bit, so that he's sitting on his heels on the pavement beside her. "I just want you to be happy, okay? And if that means that you marry Roy, then I will get out of the way." He closes his eyes, can't believe that he's said it and lightening hasn't struck him. "But I can't stay here in Scranton if you marry him. I know I promised you I'd stay no matter what, but…I can't do that. I'm sorry."

He opens his eyes and she's frowning at him, thoughtful. She looks away after a minute, looks out through the windshield, stares into the night, sniffs, wipes at her cheek with the flat of her hand.

She says, "You don't know how hard it was, for me to walk away the other night." Her voice is slow, measured and calm.

He's not sure he's heard her correctly, so he cocks his head to the side and frowns at her.

When she looks back at him she's almost smiling, almost. "That's the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Walk away from you."

He blinks. "Not quite as hard as watching you go, I'm thinking." He feels like he's missed a step somewhere, fallen asleep and woken up in a different conversation, on a different night. What does it mean? Is she trying to let him down easy? If so, why the playful smile? Why is she so damn _confusing? _

She swipes at her face again, looks away into the night. He's still holding her hand. A car passes, swerving to avoid the open door, and the passenger stares back at the two of them, but they don't look up. She hugs herself with her free arm, staring after the taillights of the car. "It's late," she says absently. They could be back at the office, getting ready to leave on a Friday.

"Yeah, almost midnight." It's all he can say.

She smiles at him then, just the corners of her mouth tugging upward, and he is more confused than ever. "Isn't it funny. I slept practically all afternoon, and all I feel like doing now is…sleeping."

"You're not going home, are you?" He narrows his eyes at her.

"Well…" She screws up her mouth, seeming to think about it. She fingers the key ring, lying on the dashboard.

"To an empty apartment? No. I don't think it's a good night to be alone. What do you think?"

She peers at him thoughtfully, again. Squeezes his hand, slowly. "I don't think so either."

He clears his throat. "Well, you're welcome to stay here. My roommate's gone for the weekend, so…" He really can't think of anything more to say. Anything that she won't take the wrong way, that is. But…what _is_ the wrong way, exactly? What is she _doing?_

For now, she's just sitting in her car, holding his hand, leaning her head back against the seat and gazing at his face like she's trying to figure something out. She's biting her lip in one corner in that adorable way she has, and if this keeps up for one more second he might just be forced to—

"Okay," she says. She whispering, and he's not sure if it's that or if it's the breeze sweeping across the road, making the neighbors' wind chimes tinkle and making a few strands of hair fall across her face, or if it's the thought of her with Roy and the fact that he doesn't even have the right to be angry about it…but he's shivering as he stands up and helps her out of the car and shuts the door behind her. She's still holding his hand as they walk across the lawn, as he opens the door and as they cross the room and head toward the stairs. And it feels so good he thinks he might scream.

He finally lets her go as he starts climbing the stairs, and it's not until he's about halfway up that he realizes she's not with him any more, that she's still standing down at the bottom. He pivots on the sixth step and turns, grabbing the banister, and there she is, in his shirt with the sleeves rolled up and bare feet and hair spilling down over her shoulders, and he catches his breath.

"What am I doing?" she whispers, and in the darkness of the stairway she is looking up at him but he can't see her eyes.

"I have no idea," he answers. And turns, and continues up the stairs. He waits for her in the doorway of his bedroom, and in a moment she joins him. They face one another in the doorway.

This would be the time, he realizes. This would be the perfect time. To tell her everything, everything he's ever thought and hoped and dreamed about her. But he can't. _It's not right._ And he can't forget it. So he lets the moment pass, and she ducks her head and turns away and she's walking toward the bed, plopping down on it like she did that other night; and like that other night, all he can do now is watch her, bemused and waiting.

"Okay, so," he says, and walks over to his dresser, grabbing a shirt and a pair of shorts at random. He heads toward the door again. "Um, I'll just…"

"Don't go." Again, it is almost too soft for him to hear.

Again, she's not looking at him, but down at her clasped hands.

Again, he stops in the doorway, then slowly turns.

"I mean," she says, twisting her fingers together. "I don't mean…not…" She looks up helplessly. "You know what I mean, right?"

Sadly, he does. He takes a few steps forward. "You don't wanna be alone?"

She shakes her head, pouting slightly and batting her eyelashes, using his heart as her own personal punching bag.

He forces himself to smile. "Gotcha. Just give me a few seconds to change."

She nods.

_Damnit,_ he thinks, screams to himself. _Why can't I say no to her?_

He makes it all the way down the hall to the bathroom, closes the door softly but firmly behind him and presses his back flat up against it before letting out the breath he has been holding. He drops the shorts and shirt to the floor and clutches his hair in his hands, and tries to remember all he has ever known about _distraction._ About being just friends. About _not thinking about_ the beautiful woman who is about to be in bed with you, whom you cannot touch but desperately want to…

_This line of thought is not helping. Okay. Baseball? No, that got me in trouble before. Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day? Worked for Austin Powers. Oh, but she'd probably get that reference, and then she'd laugh, and I'd be a goner. Um. Um. _

And then: a flash of brilliance. Dwight! If there is anyone who can kill a mood, it's Dwight. _We have our distraction for the evening._ He undresses slowly, telling himself, _Think of Dwight, just think of Dwight._

………………………….

Ten minutes later, he is telling himself: _Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time._

And he is telling himself: _You are such an idiot._

He'd come in to find her already curled up on her side under the covers, with her eyes closed and her pants balled up at the foot of the bed. At which point he'd completely forgotten about what he was supposed to be thinking about (Dwight) and instead begun thinking about Pam in his shirt and no pants, lying in his bed exactly ten inches away from where he is about to be.

He's managed, somehow, to flip off the hall light, leaving the two of them in darkness, and to stumble back over to the bed and fumble his way around to the far side and sit, awkwardly, beside her, less than a foot away from the mound of covers and curly hair that is Pam. And now he has no idea what to do. He can't get under the covers with her, just can't. For one thing, she probably wouldn't let him. For another, he wouldn't be responsible for what would happen if he did that.

He can't lie down either. Well, he could, but the thought of being stretched out next to her…well, it's still way too dangerous. No, the safest thing to do, really, is just to sit here and wait for morning. Who needs sleep, anyway? Overrated. In fact, studies have shown…

She's moving. He freezes, but can't help turning to watch her, wondering what she's going to do. It turns out she's just shifting around to lie on her back; she throws one arm up over her eyes and he wonders if she always sleeps like that. There is filtered moonlight coming through the shades and he can make out the white of his shirt on her body and he realizes he's staring but he can't look away.

She's just so beautiful.

Her arm is shifting. "You're not gonna sleep?" Her voice is bleary and she is so tired, he doesn't want to keep her awake talking.

"Nah," he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "Not tired."

There is a pause; she is very still. "So…you're just going to sit there all night?"

He smiles. "Well, you told me not to go."

"You're right, I did." She lowers her arm and begins to fiddle with the comforter. "I don't want to keep you up, though."

"Told you, I'm not tired."

She sighs. "Do you want to talk?"

He shifts around so that he is facing her more fully. "What about?"

"About…stuff." Her hand is drifting lower, over the comforter, in his general direction. He re-shifts himself, scooting a bit further away from her, toward the edge of the bed. _Torture. This is torture._

And suddenly, her hand is there, on his. She's taken his hand in the dark and is holding it, and her skin is warm and dry and soft. Their fingers are entwined, and it's really hard to think of anything else. "Uh, stuff," he says.

"Yeah. Stuff." She rubs the pad of her thumb against the base of his thumb, her nail just grazing his skin. He could die, really, right now. "Like…shoes and ships and sailing wax."

"Cabbages and kings," he replies, without even thinking about it. She begins to giggle, shaking the bed softly, and he laughs along with her, shifting so that his legs are up on the bed but not letting go of her hand. One of his knees grazes her leg. Yup, he could die.

"Hey," she says.

"Yeah?"

"I want to try something."

_Oh god oh god oh god._ His body's near-immediate response to that comment would be mighty embarrassing if the lights were still on. He realizes he has to say something in response, so he says, "What?" It comes out all strangled-sounding.

"Lie down," she says.

"Um," he says. His voice is cracking like he's a teenager.

She laughs again, sounding slightly hysterical. "Don't worry, I'm not going to try any moves on you," she says, throwing his earlier words back at him, and this time he has to laugh along with her. "I just want to fall asleep."

"Oh."

"With you."

"Okay."

"And it'll be easier if I know you're comfortable too."

"Uh-huh."

So, because he can't say no to her, he slowly unfolds his long limbs and stretches out next to her on the bed. He is on top of the comforter because he still can't quite bring himself to crawl under the covers with her, and he thinks that he was right to try to avoid this position before: he has never been more comfortable, or more uncomfortable, in his life. He wants to avoid touching her, but he doesn't want to make it seem like he's avoiding touching her, so he ends up stiffening his entire body into an unnatural curvature not apropos of sleep.

But really. Sleep is overrated.

It gets worse. She scoots over toward him and rests her head on his shoulder. So now he has not only the warm weight of her entire body taking up one-half of his bed, he has her soft head on his shoulder and stray wisps of her hair brushing his neck and her soap-and-powder scent filling his lungs, and he's still not going to sleep.

It's going to be a long night.


	5. Smile

Don't sue me for copyright infringement; any that you find is unintended, plus I have no money to give you anyway.

…………………….

SMILE

Pam woke once during the night, and couldn't remember where she was.

This would happen all the time when she was a girl: she'd be sleeping over at a friend's house, and she'd wake in the night and have no idea where she was, and it would be completely dark and the bed would be unfamiliar, the room full of strange noises and smells and with windows in odd places, letting in moonlight that just didn't look the same, somehow, as the moonlight coming through the dormer windows of her friendly little bedroom at home.

And when she was very very young, she'd always end up crying because she was scared and her mom would end up having to come and get her in the middle of the night. Her first sleepover had ended that way; her mom liked to tell the story at family gatherings, how seven-year-old Pam had woken up her entire friend's family with her crying and demanded that she be taken home, and how she'd had to sleep with a nightlight for years afterward, just so she could see where she was when she woke up.

It hadn't happened in many years, but it was happening tonight: Pam had absolutely no idea where she was sleeping. For the past four years, she had woken up in the same bedroom in the same apartment, in the same secondhand queen-sized bed with the dove-grey sheets and the streetlight shining just outside the window, its light peeking around the outside of the shades so she could always see where she was, even in the dead of night. Only occasionally had she visited back home to sleep in her childhood bed, with the old orange nightlight keeping watch in the corner and the door to the hall open halfway.

This place was not either of those places. Even the crickets chirping outside the window and the occasional cars passing the house didn't sound right. She wasn't home, and she couldn't for the life of her remember why she would be anywhere else. And she wondered if she'd cry again.

Then he grunted softly beside her, and it all came flooding back: the aimless drive across town, the sweaty afternoon nap, the pizza, the tearful confession outside in her car. She was at Jim's. She could feel her face flushing in the dark as she turned her head slowly, slowly…_oh God_. Her head was resting on his shoulder. Just like that time she'd fallen asleep on him in the conference room, only this was a thousand times worse.

His shoulder was warm and comfortable. His head was thrown back and he was snoring softly and she could just feel the feather-kiss of his breath blowing a few strands of her air around her ear. She was surrounded by his scent again. She didn't want to move.

But, she had to go to the bathroom. So she lifted her head an inch, and he snorted and shifted his limbs and one of his arms brushed against her side through the comforter, and she sucked in her breath and eased out of the bed.

The floor was cool under her bare feet. She watched to see if he'd wake up, but he only turned his face away from where she'd been and moaned under his breath.

_Not tired,_ she thought. _Who was he kidding?_

She crept down the hall to the bathroom, clutching the tails of his shirt around her upper legs even though she knew his roommate wasn't home. She didn't turn on the light in the bathroom: another habit from childhood. The bright light had always hurt her eyes when she flipped it on after walking in near-complete darkness, so she left it off and felt her way around the room until her eyes adjusted.

Some things were easier in the dark.

On the way out she caught sight of her own dim reflection in the mirror over the sink, just a silhouette against the light blue shower curtain, and she couldn't help staring. His shirt was bright white and the first two buttons were open, and the skin of her face and neck was almost as pale as the cloth. Her face looked like a ghost's; her eyes were two round shadows. She stared at herself in the dark: at the cloud of bushy hair, the sallow cheeks and the tight line of a mouth.

_What am I doing?_

She stared at her reflection for a few more seconds, and then, to her own complete astonishment, felt the corners of her mouth tugging upward. A laugh bubbled its way up her throat and nearly exploded out of her mouth; she put her hand up just in time, and the giggle escaped as a muffled snort. She caught her own shadowy eyes in the mirror, and more giggles fought their way up from her chest and shook her as they escaped, silently, into the darkness. Her knees gave out and she sat down, hard, on the edge of the tub.

_Pammy has the giggles._ It was her Mom, and she was a little girl again, staring at her Mom across the breakfast table, covering her mouth with both hands and trying like mad to keep the laughter in_. I see you,_ her Mom would say, smiling at her and pointing. _I see you laughing._ It was a losing battle; it always had been. Pam took her hand away from her mouth and suffered through the giggles for a few minutes, the laughter escaping through her nose. It would sound like she was crying, she realized, to anyone who happened to hear her. But she couldn't stop.

Finally the laughter subsided. She wiped at her eyes with the rolled-up sleeves of the shirt; there were more tears on her face than she'd expected. She stood up and caught her own eye in the mirror, and surprised herself again by sticking her tongue out at her sober-looking reflection. _I saw you laughing._

She opened the door and lurched out into the dark hallway, grinning, steadying herself against the wall. The walls up here on the second floor were strangely bare, like the two young men who shared the house wanted to keep up the illusion that they were still in a dorm, that this was still only temporary. If she lived here, she'd want some pictures, at least, maybe even her own work, or some family photos, even, just something to brighten up…

In her absence, he'd turned over onto his left side, away from where she would have been, and half-curled his legs into a long comma shape. His feet almost reached the end of the mattress. He'd pillowed his head in the crook of his left elbow; his right arm was splayed out in front of him, dangling off the edge of the bed.

She tiptoed across to the bed and, being careful not to touch him, tugged the corner of the comforter out from underneath his knees. Feeling slightly absurd, she spread half of the blanket over his sleeping form--_Well, he must be cold_--trying to ignore the way his eyes looked when they were closed in the dreamy half-light. She had to fight back another attack of the giggles as she tucked the blanket around him; she stood there with both hands over her mouth and watched the blanket rise and fall with his steady, deep breaths, and tried to get control over herself for a long time.

Then, not really thinking about what she was doing--or so she told herself--she crawled under the blanket next to him, took a deep breath, and lay her head back onto the pillow.

Perfect.

…………………..

In the morning, she could barely remember getting up hours before, but she did remember that she had put the blanket over both of them. She remembered because he'd turned over again in the night, and was now lying on his right side, facing her, with one arm draped over her midsection and his face inches away from hers in the depression between the two pillows.

It was disturbing on several levels. For one thing, his hand on her belly: the long fingers splayed in every direction. Every. Direction. His hand was warm through the thin material of the shirt. Really. Warm.

For another: his breath on her cheek. She could feel the warmth when he exhaled, the cold vacuum when he inhaled. It was just…odd. And good.

Odd, to be looking at him from such a short distance, to be able to move her head to the side and study she curve of his mouth, how even in his sleep, his lips twitched as though he wanted to smile. She could lean in and kiss him, if she wanted.

Good, to be able to see just how long his lashes were against his cheeks, to be able to count the faint, almost-not-there freckles on his nose. If she wanted, she could…

He needed a haircut. An unruly strand of hair had fallen into one eye, just touching the soft skin of his eyelid. She drew her hand from underneath the blanket and, as if in slow motion, as if watching herself from far away, caught the strand of hair between two fingers and smoothed it back up over his forehead, her fingertips just grazing his skin.

Then his eyes were open. In the daytime they were a dark green/hazel, but right now they were softer, almost grey. It seemed to take Jim, too, a minute to remember where he was, and with whom: first, his eyes widened, then he blinked several times in succession, and finally they softened with recognition. His mouth tried to pull up into a smile as he drew his hand away from her, but immediately his cheeks stiffened, suppressing it. He was trying to hold back, trying not to be happy. She could see it.

Neither of them spoke, and the silence stretched out longer and longer. The sunlight seeped into the dim room from behind the shades. The birds sang.

And then: "Hey," he said. His voice was low and bleary with sleep. His movements mirrored her own as he reached up and slowly, slowly brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering and brushing her cheek and the tip of her ear as he pulled away.

"Hi," she said. Her own voice sounded thin and much too far away.

He stretched his legs under the blanket, extending them out past the end of the bed, allowing his knee to brush against hers. His eyes closed and he rubbed them with the flat of his palms. "How'd you sleep?"

"Fine." She couldn't look away from him.

"Mmmm." He dropped his head into the crook of his elbow and watched her, and his eyes were burning her but she couldn't look away.

"How about you?" she asked.

"What?"

"How did you sleep?" She poked a finger teasingly into his chest, and she saw his hand move up to grab her hand and hold it to his chest, but he stopped himself from touching her at the last second, diverting the movement and scratching his cheek. She wasn't fooled.

"I didn't sleep," he said. "I told you, I wasn't tired."

She grinned at him. "I beg to differ." She leaned closer, not really thinking, his body so warm, their eyes locked together. "I saw you." A small laugh escaped her.

He smiled back, a touch of confusion wrinkling his brow. "Did not."

"Did so." She was so, so close to him. She could almost feel his heart beating through the space between them. She could almost feel it when he took a breath.

"Liar," he breathed.

It was too much. She was kissing him, just a gentle touch of her lips to his. It was such a small thing, really, she reasoned. Such a small space between them, such a thin line to cross. It was so easy.

And then: the flood gates opened, and their mouths opened and the tip of his tongue was brushing her lower lip, and suddenly every inch, _every inch_ of their bodies was touching underneath the blanket. He was so warm. He was breathing into her ear. Someone, somewhere, was murmuring his name, with a voice that sounded dim and weak. "Jim," just "Jim." Somewhere, he was kissing her. Somewhere in the universe, his arms were around her and he was pulling her closer, closer even though it wasn't possible to be closer because they were already touching, everywhere there was to touch.

Somewhere, his hands were in her hair and on her back and rubbing up and down the outside of her thigh and just everywhere. Everywhere.

Somehow, he was pulling back. His eyes were closed tight and he was breathing heavily and she was sure she could feel his heart pounding. Somehow, he was looking at her, his eyes locked with hers and filled with love and longing and sadness.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.

"What I want." She said it without hesitation, her voice now clear and strong.

He just stared at her. He took a shaky breath and said, looking away, "This is what you want."

She pressed her fingertips to his cheek and made him look back at her, nodding. "Yes."

This time he couldn't resist; he reached up and took her hand and pressed it to his face. He was kissing her palm and the inside of her wrist and she'd never, never…He was kissing her mouth again, she wasn't sure how it had happened this time and she didn't care either because she'd never…not ever…

And then he was pulling away, and it was all she could do not to groan with disappointment. He still had hold of her hand, and when the feeling came back into her fingertips she noticed that his palms were sweating and his breathing was shaky. He was still holding back, still trying to keep himself from being happy.

He took a deep breath and looked back into her eyes, and he was so, so sad. "Why do I find that hard to believe?"

She blinked at him, stung, and the small smile that had been curling her lips faded. "I don't know." Her voice was trembling. "Why do you?"

He looked away, up at the ceiling. Then he rolled onto his back and let go of her hand and covered his face with his palms. He was pressing his fingers into his forehead so hard that his knuckles were white. His voice was muffled when he said, "Because just last night you were telling me that you were still in love with Roy."

"Roy," she echoed. _Remember him, Pam? The one who never asks you what you want, not even when it comes to…_

"Yeah," said Jim, and his voice was low and bitter. "Remember him?"

"Yeah," she said sharply, propping herself up on her elbow. "And I also remember what I said last night."

"Yeah, so do I." He was close to tears; it was in his voice.

"I said I love him. And I do."

"And you don't have to keep saying it," he spat, pushing himself up to a sitting position and swinging his legs off the bed, so he was facing away from her. He buried his hands in his face again. "Don't you know what it--"

"Would you let me finish?" She practically shouted it. He must have heard the tears in her voice, too, because he turned to look at her, frowning. His eyes were red and damp and still, heartbreakingly, carried a trace of hope. She took a shuddering breath. "I love him, I care about him and I'd really rather not hurt him if I can help it. But…" She looked down, suddenly shy for some inexplicable reason. "I'm not _in love_ with him. Not any more. Not…not for a long time now."

"What?"

She looked up; he hadn't moved, but his mouth was hanging open. "You said it yourself," she continued. "He left me alone. After everything that happened, after the last few days, after…what I told you about…" She looked down again. "He left."

"But…that's not…what about the…the--"

"There's not going to be any wedding." The blue pillowcase beneath her elbow suddenly became fascinating to her: all the tiny interlocking threads, crossing and weaving until her eye couldn't follow them. She stared at the pillowcase, kneaded it with her fingers.

"When did you decide this?" He was barely speaking aloud, as if he had no breath left to use.

"Few hours ago." She didn't look at him.

"While you were sleeping?" His voice was cracking again. "Pam…"

"No, I was awake."

She heard him take a long breath; her eyes caught movement and she saw that he, too, was plucking at the bedspread beneath him. His long fingers ran over the fabric, looking for a loose thread, as he said, "Wow. So what are you…I mean, are you, I mean, what do you want…"

His voice trailed off and she trained her eyes on his hand as she reached out, slowly, deliberately, and took it. Held it. _What do I want?_ When was the last time someone had asked her that? She laced her fingers into his and her heart beat in her throat as she let her eyes rise from his hand to his arm to his shoulder to his throat to his mouth. To his eyes.

She looked into his eyes without blinking. Just looked at him.

And his mouth curled into a smile, a full smile for the first time in days, and it lit up his face in the way that she loved, and it was mischievous and warm and knowing and loving and just _Jim_. And she loved it.

And after that:

He kind of fell down on top of her with no preamble, and was kissing the breath out of her before she could say anything, and she felt his warm weight on her, and decided it was all she'd ever need. And he wasn't holding back now, not at all, not with any part of him, and she'd never, never…

The buttons were breaking off of his white work shirt and they were both laughing as the sleeve ripped a little when she flung it away, and then she was tugging at his shorts.

And…

She was letting out a long, long breath into his ear as they both lay almost motionless. Almost.

Then she was taking a sharp breath in. A pause, and she was biting down hard on her lower lip, hard enough to taste blood, as she let the breath out in a soft moan.

"I love you," she whispered with the last of her breath.

He pulled back, and his brow was furrowed and his lips were quivering, and his eyes were drinking her in like he couldn't get enough of just seeing her and his hands were tangled in her hair. "Say it again," he breathed.

And she had to pause to take another quick, sharp breath, and she closed her eyes as she let the breath out in one shuddering word: "…Jim." She opened her eyes and clutched at his shoulders, neck, hair. "I'm in _love_ with you."

And after that, there were no more words.

And sometime in the hour or so that followed, she thought to herself for the very last time, _What am I doing?_

She smiled as she answered, _What I want._

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A/N: So…do I continue? Or do I shut up now? It's up to y'all. I **heart** reviews, good and bad; they encourage me to update more quickly. Hint, hint. ;)


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